


Control

by catharticvillains



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Begging, Blood Kink, Blood and Violence, Breeding Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Daddy Kink, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, Jealousy, Light BDSM, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Pegging, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Scent Kink, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Temperature Play, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29729088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catharticvillains/pseuds/catharticvillains
Summary: USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI WAS more than he had led you to believe. He was more than just a selectively quiet, dense model who used to live and  breathe volleyball like it was all he had left. He was more than his friends said; he was more than his manager would ever say to your face.Ushijima Wakatoshi was a dangerous man, one you should have stayed away from the moment you found out who he truly was—except you could never say no to him no matter how hard you tried. Could never refuse the intentionally gentle, yet somewhat harsh man who you had grown to call a friend.All it took was one phone call at four in the morning to cement him into your life forever…And he wants more than just "friendship".
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader/Kenma Kozume, Ushijima Wakatoshi/Reader
Comments: 24
Kudos: 70





	1. 001

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags please. 💕 Feedback is appreciated!

YOU MET USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI on a cold, bitter day in the middle of winter at a beach that was deserted besides the small skeleton crew. They had brought their cameras and plastic tarps to keep you from getting sand all over their sample fashion pieces and were excitedly chattering over warm coffee that you couldn't have.

Modeling wasn't the job you had in mind when you had accepted the personal request from your best friend, Akaashi Keiji—the man who had skyrocketed to fame with his effortless clothing designs and pretty face—over two years ago. Yet here you were, freezing, nearly naked in the middle of winter with snow threatening to fall down from the heavens and decorate you with delicate flakes of precious ice. Akaashi paid you very well for going through with his sometimes insane concept ideas, but you couldn't help but curse him in your mind as you covered your breasts to retain some semblance of warmth, as well as any modesty you had left to keep from the photographers.

"[Name], how are we doing?" Your manager, Ayano, sidled up to you with a warm mug in her hands and looking amazingly warm and cozy, a direct contrast to your shivering form. "It won't be much longer, we're just waiting on the male model Akaashi hired. The other one flaked last minute for a trip to Argentina. Can you believe that?"

"Are you serious?" You chattered incredulously, teeth clacking together uncomfortably. Ayano had the shame to pity you. "Oikawa went to Argentina?"

You had been banking on the man to be your partner for the shoot. He was the only one you felt comfortable with half nude as you were, since you both did these spreads with each other often and enough that it wasn't strange for you to change in the same dressing room. He was amazing at lightening the atmosphere so you were comfortable with him, even if his manager got angry with him whenever he flirted with you on what he thought was the sly. Dancing his fingers over your bare shoulders was not sly, you'd laughed at him when he pouted at the hair and makeup station.

But he was in Argentina? For what? You had half a mind to text him an infuriatingly long text, and reached for your phone in Ayano's pocket, but found yourself exposed to the cold and even chillier than before. With a sigh, you pulled your arms close to your chest again, peering down to make sure you didn't have a nip slip in the process. The crazed press hiding in the sand dunes would have a field day with that.

"He never said why," Ayano answered, taking a sip of her coffee and ignoring your glare of envy. "It'll be okay though, Ushijima's a nice man and he won't try anything. Akaashi knows him pretty well, otherwise he wouldn't have gone to him last minute."

You snorted, imagining Oikawa boarding a plane hurriedly. "How last minute are we talking?"

"Around an hour or so before we got here." Ayano nodded her head sagely when you turned to look at her with more disbelief than you had at the reveal that Oikawa had dipped and flew out to another country. "Mhm. He's very reliable, according to Akaashi."

"Who has free time like that?" You laughed. "Nevermind, don't answer that. Can I get a jacket or something? I'm freezing here. We haven't even shot any singles yet."

Ayano winced in sympathy and patted your shoulder. Her fingers were so warm that you lamented the loss immediately, shuffling closer to huddle into her scratchy linen jacket. She snickered and let you stay close, almost burying yourself into her side, and too soon, you heard a car door slam near the parking lot over the quiet sea.

Your eyes darted to the top of the dunes where you spotted a tall, muscular figure cresting the half buried staircase and heading down to your entourage of photographers and stylists. At his side, two dogs loped in similar fashion, each held on leather leashes and clipped to what looked like diamond encrusted chain collars. Dobermans, you realized, from the cropped ears and docked tails when they drew closer, lithe frames stark against the pale sand. One was black and tan, slightly larger than the other one, which was Isabella and tan, with a more svelte figure and kept more closely to its owner, who was far more impressive the closer he got.

You couldn't help but poke your head over Ayano's shoulder and gawk at the male specimen before you. He was all toned muscle, from his neck down to his feet, and you could see carefully sculpted abdominal muscles through his shirt, which clung to him like a second skin in some silky nylon fabric that had some expensive name over his left pectoral. He wore sweatpants that were torn at the knees into shorts, and you raised your eyebrows at the way his calf muscles flexed when he shifted his weight to his left leg. You only saw that kind of dedication on bodybuilders and showmen, not models; they all seemed to prefer skinny muscle to actual muscle.

He had that austere cast to his features and aura, you could tell, when he turned his head just enough to reveal his eyes, brilliant chips of green and brown framed by severe eyebrows that complimented the bones of his face and the angle of his jaw. Even his hair was complimentary, a close undercut with long strands on top that looked to have been combed through with fingers and half heartedly with a comb.

"Damn." Ayano whispered your thoughts and pulled away from you, leaving you cold and shivering once more. Like a shot, she was off to speak to his manager, who was a lanky man with a startling shock of red hair that had you staring for a moment.

You almost screeched when a cold nose touched your cold knee. Somewhere between Ayano leaving and you shifting your hands under your armpits, the man had unhooked his dogs from their leashes and allowed them to wander up to you without a care in the world, because he was still listening to something the lead director was telling him.

The one nudging at your knee was the Isabella and tan one, her ears up and pointed towards you. Her stub of a tail wagged excitedly and you hesitated to pet her, eyeing the black and tan one that had settled into a sitting position beside your feet and out of the harsh gusts of wind that rose every so often.

Moving to cover your breasts with one arm, you held out your hand for her to sniff, cringing when she leaned forward and huffed over your fingers. Then, tentatively, she gave a few licks to your knuckles and bounded off towards her owner. The black one, male by the looks of it, stayed beside you, stalwart and unwilling to go back out into the cold wind.

"Nox." Their owner's voice was so deep that you were startled by the thrum that had begun in your belly. You looked over and saw the man was staring at the dog behind you, waiting for him to obey his call. "Come."

The dog, Nox, huffed and hid his head behind your leg, ignoring him. You had to stifle a snicker. The man looked at you, then, and you noticed that he kept his eyes trained on your face, analyzing your features with a slight furrow to his brows. Then he looked away, back towards the director who was pointing to you and explaining something with wide gestures. You almost felt offended at his easy dismissal.

"[Name]!" The director waved you over and you scowled, wrapping your other arm over your chest again and walking over to where he stood with the mystery man. His dog, Nox, trailed behind you, keen on avoiding both his owner and the wind. When you stood beside the director, surprised at how tall the man was and how your neck started to hurt looking up at him, he gestured to the man. "This is Ushijima Wakatoshi, Akaashi's friend. He'll be modeling with you today. Ushijima, this is [Name], the face of the brand."

Your face flushed red and crept down your neck when he looked at you again, this time an intense look of concentration on his face. Even his eyes were intense, sharp and narrowed and soul searching. You hoped he blamed the blush on the cold.

"Nice to meet you," you said, embarrassed at how your teeth cracked together, and held out a shaking hand for him to shake. "I'm [Name] [Surname]."

Ushijima stared at your hand like it was a particularly offensive bug. Your smile turned brittle and before you could pull your hand back and tuck it under your armpit, he enveloped your tiny hand in his—tiny compared to his giant ones, anyway—and shook it slowly, almost like he was pained to shake it in the first place.

"Ushijima," he said and that was all he offered. He released your hand and looked to the director again, waiting for a further explanation, and you clenched your jaw in irritation. Even if he was pretty, you didn't like being dismissed like you were nothing.

This time, the red flush creeping up your neck had nothing to do with embarrassment.

His manager seemed to notice your growing anger and slapped Ushijima on the back. Hard. You had to swallow nervously when Ushijima's eyes went cold and turned to his manager, shoulders stiffening and bunching underneath the sting of the slap.

"Wakatoshi, you can't just do that," the redheaded male admonished, pointing to you. "Be nice. Remember our lessons?"

You raised an eyebrow. Lessons? To be nice? You appraised the man in a new light; he was stiff, too tense, and seemed high strung like a live wire, like he was waiting for a bomb to go off. You wondered if he had an issue or something with any emotion other than coldness.

Ushijima stared at his manager with narrowed eyes, then looked back over to you. They softened slightly, scanning over your face—your anger ebbing away into confusion—and he dipped his head slightly in a small bow. "Sorry."

"It's fine," you whispered in reply, your confusion overriding your anger and the warmth it had brought you. You watched his eyebrows drop and then go back to neutral, as if he was thinking, and the director cleared his throat to draw both of your attention back to him.

"As I was saying—Ushijima, the poses are fairly simple. Because [Name] isn't tall enough to reach your shoulders, she'll be standing on a stool. It'll be your job to keep her steady. How uncomfortable are you with intimate skin contact?"

"It doesn't bother me," Ushijima answered in a clipped tone. You squirmed uncomfortably, cold once more, and felt Nox brush against your legs. "Is there anything else?"

"No, anything else is covered in your contract. Just put on the clothes they give you and we'll start in five."

You made your way back to the tarp, spotting the stool in question, and turned around, mouth open to ask if you should move it to the middle, and abruptly closed it with an audible snap.

There, behind a tiny rack of clothes facing the ocean, Ushijima was pulling his shirt over his head, the muscles in his back flexing fantastically with the smooth movement. A few moments later he stepped out from behind the rack, dressed in sleek and slim khaki pants that hugged at his legs a little too snuggly. The stylist rolled the hems up above his ankles and handed him a pair of loafers, which he put on once he reached the tarp and wiped his feet clean of sand.

Your mouth was as dry as the Sahara desert. His personality might be lacking, but he was gorgeous, you had to give him that. Oikawa was pretty in a different way, but he'd never appealed to you in the way this man, Ushijima, was. Even if it was solely physical appeal, you couldn't help but wonder if he had deeper issues than just being nice; he didn't seem rude, just blunt, the more you thought about it, one of those silent types that your mother adored.

You didn't like that your tastes skewed close to hers.

"[Name], up on the stool," the director yelled over rising winds. Your hair whipped into your face. "Ushijima, stand in front of her. Yes, just like that, now move a little to the left—right there. Now [Name], wrap one arm around his neck and the other under his arm and over his back."

You looked Ushijima in the eye from your slightly elevated height. He was eye level with you now and raised his eyebrows.

"Are you okay with me…?" You motioned to your breasts and then mimed wrapping your free arm around his neck.

"Oh. Yeah." He shuffled closer and when the stool trembled under shifting sand, his hands shot up to steady you at the waist, just under the ribs. His thumbs almost touched, his hands were so large. "Are you okay?"

At least he was trying to be considerate. You removed your other arm and steadied yourself on his shoulders, faintly hearing the click of cameras already going. "There, I should be okay now. You can let go if you want."

You heard his frown, more than saw it, as you hooked your right arm around his neck and the other under his bicep, draping your hand loosely over his left shoulder blade. His hand came up to your back to hold you steady, pressing between your shoulders and unintentionally pushing your breasts and upper body into his chest. "I don't want you to fall."

Ushijima was pleasantly warm, you noted, and shifted slightly so the director could get your face better. When your nipples, hard from the cold, dragged against his chest, you could have sworn you heard him take a deep inhale and exhale sharply, but over the wind it was hard to tell.

"Thanks," you said, as normally as you could make it. It was a whisper and almost directly in his ear. His hand tightened subtly against the skin of your side.

A few clicks of a shutter later and the director wasn't satisfied. "[Name], wrap both arms under his and rest your chin on his shoulder."

You did as commanded, even if your body was screaming at the pose you were in and your mind damning Oikawa to hell at the same time. You rested your hands on his shoulder blades, this time your chest and shoulders and torso flush with his. You passed off the goosebumps rising on his skin from the cold, and gave a sultry look to the camera.

"Gorgeous," the director clapped.

They took a few more photos, most of them with you or Ushijima turning your heads to look at the ocean or each other. Every time your gazes met, it was like someone had dropped a nest of bees in your stomach and set them off, and his eyes were dark and intense enough to make shivers go down your spine.

"I'm loving this tension," the director remarked to Ayano and Ushijima's manager. "This is better than anything Oikawa could have produced, I think."

Ayano snorted out a laugh. "Don't let him hear you say that. He'll be offended."

The director chuckled. "Alright, [Name], Ushijima! Ushijima, stand behind [Name] this time and [Name], face him please."

You pirouetted on the stool, Ushijima steadying you by your hips, and shifted behind you, allowing you to grip onto his shoulders and steady yourself when more sand sunk into his footprints.

"Alright, same pose as before except Ushijima, I want you to put your fist in her hair and look at the camera."

It was your turn to get goosebumps when his hand slid up the back of your neck to cradle the back of your scalp, and then close his fist into the hair at the nape of your neck. The steady pressure combined with the sound of his breathing in your ear had you mentally running laps, and in the back of your head, you wondered if he'd had experience in pulling hair—then you flushed when you realized exactly where your thoughts were going.

God, Oikawa was never going to forgive you.

Ayano whistled lowly at the display screen as the camera shutters went off. Ushijima's stare was deadly and the way his fingers were tight in your [color] hair added a flair that made her feel like she was looking in on an intimate moment.

"He's good," she complimented towards Tendou.

"Eh?" The redhead scratched his nose. It was numb from the cold. "His face always looks like that. It's terrifying."

When you and Ushijima parted for a break while the director examined the photos more closely, Ayano watched as Ushijima's fingers lingered on your spine for a moment longer than necessary. Then you locked eyes for a brief moment, caught in your own world, and then you stepped away, hurrying into the jacket that Ayano held out for you.

"What was that?" Ayano asked curiously, watching Ushijima tug on a jacket with his name embroidered on the breast pocket. "That tension was no joke."

"He's dangerous," You said breathlessly, holding a hand over yout rapidly beating heart. "Jesus, what did his parents feed him? I might faint, Ayano."

"The souls of his enemies?" She joked, and you jabbed her in the ribs. "Seriously though, maybe you should explore that sometime. I haven't seen you like that since Kuroo."

You wrinkled your nose. "He'd be happy to hear you say that. I still need to call him and see how Kenma's doing."

Ever since your ex-boyfriend had come out as bisexual to you a few months ago, two years after you'd broke things off cleanly, you'd been his staunch supporter when his parents had shunned him and Kenma. While your relationship might not have been what you both wanted, you were still good friends, and had been there for each other through thick and thin. So when Kuroo introduced Kenma, a rising video game streamer, as his boyfriend, you'd cried alligator tears of joy and hugged the life out of him.

You and Kenma got along like a house on fire, to Kuroo's relief and slight worry. You made more than one guest appearance on his streams, and being a famous face, people started shipping you in a poly relationship with the both of them. Even though it was a joke, you'd caught Kenma and Kuroo eyeing you thoughtfully more than once and you were adamant that a poly relationship wasn't what you wanted or needed, even though you loved them both.

Kenma had shrugged dismissively and said,"We might convince you one day."

Coming from him, it was a vow and not a promise. You'd laughed it off and Ayano saved the day with a phone call, but you knew he was dead serious about it. Even Kuroo had been interested in the idea, saying he wouldn't mind it at all.

You weren't sure how you felt about that.

"What's wrong with Kenma?" Ayano inquired.

"He's caught some parasite from a bad batch of sushi. He's been in and out of the hospital for a while since he can't fully get rid of them, so I like to check in and see if they need anything." You shrugged. While Kenma made good income streaming, he couldn't do it while he was ill, so you had been subtly paying their bills. Kuroo's chemistry teaching job didn't pay as well as you'd like either. You'd thought about lending your Tokyo penthouse to them since you never used it, but Kuroo would be hesitant to accept the offer. "Last I heard he was able to keep fluids down and was working on soup."

"Hm. I hope he's okay," Ayano hummed. "I know Kuroo's been struggling lately."

You nodded sadly in agreement. Kuroo never ceased to amaze you with how thoughtful and unselfish he was; he'd drop anything for Kenma in a heartbeat, or you if it came to it, and you almost pitied him because all he had was Kenma and you.

Before you could say more, the director called for you and you shed your jacket morosely. Ushijima stood with his dogs and you stepped hesitantly beside him, looking to the director for directions.

"We're going to take one last shoot and then we'll be packing up for the day," he announced and you sighed in relief. You'd finally be out of the cold. "Ushijima, you'll be sitting on the stool this time. [Name], you'll be sitting in his lap and facing the camera. I'll direct you after that."

You avoided Ushijima's gaze as best you could as you both made your way to the tarp. The edges fluttered as the wind pushed it up, but you toed them down and waited for Ushijima to get comfortable on the stool. It was a bit small for him so he had to spread his legs wider than his pants would allow, planting his feet in the sand so he wouldn't fall off. It was almost hilarious.

"Nevermind! [Name], you'll have to straddle his left thigh. Ushijima, once she's settled, I want you to wrap an arm around her breasts and the other around the waist of her shorts. [Name], I want you to reach back and wrap an arm around his neck and use the other to hold on to the arm around your waist."

This just couldn't get any worse, could it? You pleaded to the gods that he wouldn't be able to read you like an open book and carefully lifted your leg over his thigh, using all of your weight to keep yourself steady. You couldn't avoid pressing the crotch of your shorts to his thigh, his leg was too long and your feet barely touched the ground. His thigh flexed between your legs and you had to swallow a tiny gasp that threatened to break free. You had to reassure yourself that he was probably as uncomfortable as you were. That was all that would get you through this.

He made sure not to let you have an accident in front of the cameras, shielding your breasts from view with his arm while you wrapped an arm around his neck and rested your fingers on the soft stubble at the nape.

When you were in position and had your best model face on, the director adjusted the camera lens to focus more on the way Ushijima was a hair's breadth away from touching his nose to the pulse in your throat and his lips to your shoulder. Then, he zoomed out and focused more on the image as a whole, chattering to the editor about how the red of the cold could be edited out.

You couldn't help but relax into Ushijima's warmth the more the cold got to you. He didn't seem to mind; if anything, his grip tightened, and you heard him sigh into your ear. The only thing driving you insane was the way he kept flexing his thigh between your legs; he kept stiffening up and forcing himself to relax, and you had to fight off the arousal that kept building within you every time you remembered that he was touching you as intimately as a man could.

While the director pointed at something you couldn't see on screen, Ushijima stiffened up again and shifted his weight just a little, but it was enough to drag the harsh seam of the shorts against your pulsing clit. You couldn't stop the shaky, small gasp that escaped you, so quiet it was drowned out by the ocean. Except Ushijima—he heard you. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face and a blush crept up your cheeks. He couldn't have known—

Until he did it again. Deliberately. Slowly.

No one paid any attention to either of you, all of them focused on the photo screen, when your hips rolled down to chase the friction instinctively. Your grip tightened on the arm around your waist and your fingers dragged upwards into the longer parts of his hair.

His quiet chuckle into your ear was like molten lava in your veins. It was less of a chuckle and more of an amused huff. "Interesting."

"What?" You bit out, embarrassed. "I can't help it."

"Oh, I know." He watched your eyes flutter closed when he flexed his thigh again, this time sucking the flesh of your cheek between your teeth and biting down. "I just find it amusing that I can feel you throbbing against my leg."

Mortification chased away your arousal briefly. "What the he—"

"Don't worry," he reassured you when the cameras turned back to the both of you, his mouth impossibly close to your ear. "I'm enjoying it."

That silenced the tiny little voice in your head telling you that you shouldn't enjoy this. A few more photos were taken, with Ushijima continuing to tease you through them, until the shoot was officially over.

You carefully stood up from his leg, hyper aware of the way his hands slid down your sides when you reached up to hide your breasts again. You glanced down and were horrified to see a small wet spot on the leg of his pants, right where you had been seated.

When he noticed you looking at it, his mouth twitched up into a tiny smirk, and then he was standing, shifting his erection to be less noticeable, and walking off behind the rack, his eyes never leaving yours. You watched the way his arms flexed as he snapped open the buttons on his pants and shoved them down his legs, swallowed the spit in your mouth, and finally turned away to allow Ayano to wrangle you into a bra and shirt.

You felt his eyes burn into you even when the stylist allowed you to keep the shorts and sent a notice to Akaashi, even though he let you keep them most of the time. You didn't think you had the nerve to hand over shorts wet with your arousal anyway; Ushijima was lucky they were made of thick fabric.

Ushijima. You glanced back and found him with his dogs and speaking with his manager. When he noticed you looking at him, his eyes darkened, and you looked away, hurrying towards your car and retrieving your phone from Ayano.

When you were safely inside the Hyundai town car you kept to stay off the radar, a text popped up on your phone from an unknown number. While pressing the ignition button, you unlocked your phone and scanned the screen, your heartbeat dropping down between your legs again when you read its contents.

'I only needed five more minutes. Maybe next time.'

And you knew he wasn't lying. You pressed shaking fingers to your mouth and took a deep breath, cranking the volume up and then pulling out of the beach parking lot without a second look back.


	2. 002

YOU DIDN'T SEE USHIJIMA for over a month after that particular incident. Between your various promotions in Brazil, Paris, and Venice by Akaashi's requests, you had no time for homebound work much less returning to Tokyo for a brief siesta with the man who was plaguing your dreams. He was a menace even when he wasn't there with you—not that you were necessarily complaining. Just the thought of him got you off faster than anything else you could have produced in the heat of the moment, and it surprised you every time the aftershocks wore off and you were trying to catch your breath.

If it were anyone else, you would have been ashamed every time thoughts of that photoshoot kept you awake until three in the morning or blindsided you in the middle of company meetings while Akaashi was briefing you on how you should do your runway turns and pauses for the crowd to show off the ridiculous slits in the gowns he'd designed for a summer collection.

Ushijima Wakatoshi was a different breed of man entirely, you'd give him that much.

Gnawing on the cap of your pen, you tapped your fingers on the corner of your desk and eyed the reference photos Akaashi had sent you so you would know how you would be appearing on the runway. A lot of them were primarily focused on shoulders, knees, calves, and hips, with an unusual emphasis on the curvature of your neck. You scribbled down a note to start your neck exercises to make sure the skin was taut and smooth before the show and, as an afterthought, sadly crossed out sugar from your diet plan.

Sometimes you hated your dietitian's planners. Your meals were planned out from morning to noon, with small snacks in between usually of protein shakes and fruit with a limited amount. While you sometimes cheated and drank soda or ate oatmeal with enough sugar to sink a battleship, you usually stuck to your diet even if it was something you didn't like—you eyed the plate of asparagus, spinach, and salmon sitting on your desk that you'd poked around at but had yet to eat. You'd most likely skip the meal entirely and replace it with something else later.

Before you could close your laptop for the night and squirm out of the designer shirt and pants you wore, the gaping slash from neck to navel leaving you chilly, a facetime call popped up on your screen, reading 'Annoying Ass Cat' or, simply, Kuroo.

You answered without a second thought. You hadn't had time to see either him or Kenma like you had wanted besides intercepting their bills and paying them yourself, even though the gamer was cautiously making his way back into the scene much to his fans delight. You would pop in the chats whenever you had the time, the time zone difference manageable for you. While it was 2PM in Tokyo, it was 6AM in Venice, right as you were waking up and eating breakfast, so you'd watch and interact with Kenma while you got ready for the day. Kuroo was there sometimes or was at work depending on the day, but you were happy to see your boys were okay even if it was through a gaming stream.

"[Name]!" Kuroo exclaimed as the screen came up, revealing your bare face and the backdrop of nighttime over Venice in the window behind you. He was sitting somewhere in the kitchen and you could see Kenma poke his head from around a corner when he shouted your name. "How's Venice? No, how was Paris? Your Instagram was full of pictures there especially."

You laughed and set your pen down on a notepad. "It's really beautiful here, I promise. I prefer Venice over Paris though, there's a tranquility here that Paris just doesn't have. But I only have one more show before Akaashi's letting me fly home for a while."

"That's good, me and Kenma miss you," he said with a wide grin. You watched the shorter male nod in agreement behind him and add,"I miss playing COD with you and ignoring Kuroo."

"Hey!" said male gasped, offended.

"I miss you guys too." You smiled and leaned back in your chair, picking the pen back up and twirling it between your fingers. "Kenma, have you gotten rid of your… uh… worm problem?"

He scowled at you briefly when you snorted at your little joke. "Yes, I have. The doctors said I should be perfectly healthy by next week."

"Finally," Kuroo guffawed. "I'm tired of thinking they're gone and then have them come right back and you get sick again."

Kenma just shrugged. You laughed lightly and opened your mouth to comment on the new clothes Kuroo was wearing since they were from Akaashi's collection when your phone pinged with a message.

"Who's that?" Kuroo asked when you reached over to pick up your phone, flipping the screen face up to scan the contact name. He watched your eyes slowly widen and a dark blush creep up your face, darker than he'd ever seen it in normal lighting, and a strangled squeak force its way past your lips. "[Name]?"

You worried at your bottom lip, glancing at the name 'Ushijima' sitting innocently in your notifications and then back to Kuroo and Kenma, who were both silently waiting for your answer to who it was. You could tell them, of course, and you would feel guilty for it—because Ushijima was your best kept fantasy, as much as you'd deny it, and the incident at the beach wasn't something you wanted to share with either of them. They were your best friends, but you had to draw the line in the sand somewhere…

And you were drawing it at Ushijima Wakatoshi.

"Akaashi has a dress he wants me to model," you choked out, ignoring Ushijima's text and opening up Akaashi's contact to pull up the risque dress he'd sent you when you landed in Venice. It didn't bother you but you needed an excuse for the flush on your face; Kuroo wouldn't know the difference. It was a bright orange number, more akin to two banners of silk wrapped around your throat and taped to cover your breasts and angle between your legs, held together by a heavy jeweled belt. You held your phone up to the laptop camera and heard Kenma let out a surprised grunt. "I know. It's not his usual work, but he wanted something for summer and… well. That's summer."

Kuroo seemed appeased by your answer, at least. "I think you could pull it off. I'll have to watch the show when it airs."

You felt relief too soon. If there was anything you didn't want either of them to do it was watch this particular show, filled with more skin and silk and nudity than you'd ever show them in polite company, your current shirt aside. It was almost like showing yourself to two overtly awkward boyfriends and expecting them to ignore you, which they wouldn't, and try not to evoke certain reactions, which they would. But you couldn't exactly tell them that, now could you?

"Way to inspire anxiety," you said, instead, fingers hovering over Ushijima's unread text. You sorely wanted to read it, but you couldn't in front of them. It felt too secret, too intimate, even though you hadn't exchanged another word with the man besides the text he'd sent you as you had left the shoot that day. "If I trip and fall it's your fault."

Kuroo grinned rakishly. "I'd bet on it."

You spent a few more moments talking to them before excusing yourself for bed. It was midnight where you were and you were getting drowsy, but the thought of Ushijima's text was enough to get you going. You would probably crash later, but your curiosity was killing you.

With a few air kisses to them both, you ended the call and stared at your phone lying on your desk, as if such a simple piece of technology didn't have the capability of turning your emotions upside down.

"Here goes nothing," you mumbled and opened the text, holding your breath and your hand over your mouth.

'Congratulations.'

Underneath he'd attached an image, and it took you a few minutes to realize what you were looking at. The main piece, which he was referring to, was a glossy magazine cover with you plastered on the front in Akaashi's lingerie line, where you'd been seated on a throne, given a scepter, and a crown that was tastefully askew on your head. You had the same photo printed and framed in Akaashi's office, one of his favorites, and your first front cover for this magazine. The magazine was laying in his lap, legs spread in what looked like an expensive leather chair, and you just barely made out the toe of his shoes and the pinstripes in his pants. You did see Nox's ear in the top corner, making you giggle just a bit.

You felt just a little pathetic at analyzing every facet of the innocent photo, but you assured yourself that you were just curious and you could learn a lot from how someone took photos.

'Thank you,' you typed back, then pulled your lip between your teeth. What else to add? 'I didn't think you'd see that, haha.'

Too nervous to watch him potentially reply, you tossed your phone on your hotel bed and pulled on your pajamas, ignoring the ping of his text back while you pulled your t-shirt over your head. When you were comfortable and felt somewhat more calm, you burrowed underneath the heavy hotel sheets and opened the text.

'Why wouldn't I?' He'd written. 'You're very eye catching, [Name]. Although that isn't what I texted you for.'

Anxiety hit you like a truck.

'Then what did you need?'

You gnawed on your nail, careful not to leave marks on the filed tips, and watched as three little periods popped up as he typed his reply. He took his time, that was for certain, and you were expecting a paragraph by the time he'd finished, but to your surprise—your heart fluttered and dropped down to your belly when you read it—it was just one simple word.

'You.'

You never regretted falling asleep more in your life. Somehow you'd gotten too comfortable and your eyes had slipped closed against your will. You'd slept until your alarm woke you and you'd sworn it was just a dream, except you nearly spit out your black coffee when you went back to the texts that morning. You felt bad about not replying, but soon it left your mind in a flurry of silks, chiffon, and lace and the chaos that was Akaashi's fashion show.

The next time you thought about those texts, it was on your flight home to Tokyo. You'd had a few glasses of champagne to celebrate not tripping on the runway, much to Kuroo's disappointment, and had typed a reply without a thought to the consequences of replying over a week later.

'Why me?' It was simple but you'd lost the nerve to type anything more. You'd have to have more to drink to type up anything more than that. Surprisingly, he was awake so early in the morning: a glance at the clock revealed it was 2 A.M. What was he doing awake so late?

'Why not you?' Was his reply, as if that explained anything.

Frustrated, you downed the rest of your champagne and requested for something stronger from the flight attendant. She blinked at you in surprise, but went to retrieve a bottle of whiskey like you'd asked while you typed up another alcohol fueled reply.

'You don't even know me,' you typed, nails clacking against the screen,'and other than nearly cumming on your leg in front of fifteen photographers, I don't know you either.'

With a huff, you slammed your phone down right as the flight attendant returned with a bottle of high grade whiskey. You drank straight from the bottle instead of using a glass, praising the perks of flying first class, and watched as Ushijima's response lit up your phone.

'I know more about you than you think, [Name].'

Eyebrows furrowing, you sat back in your seat and stared at the screen, dumbfounded and a little buzzed.

'What the hell does that mean?'

He never answered you after that. You pounded back the rest of the bottle in less than an hour and curled up on the couch near the back, knowing fully well that you'd wake up nursing the worst hangover known to man. You never did handle alcohol well, or at all. But you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Ushijima Wakatoshi was an infuriatingly handsome enigma wrapped up in a quiet, stern package with a dash of mischief that seemed rare and unseen. You wanted to unwrap this mystery and with every interaction he just seemed to add more layers, more mystery to himself, so much so that you couldn't help but wonder who he really was, or what he wanted with you.

By the time you got back to Tokyo, it was six in the morning. The airport was unusually empty and besides the paparazzi catching you and snapping a few photos of your "airport outfit"—a loose Gucci Oxford button up (which was Akaashi's and somehow made it into your bag, probably after he'd given it to you when you spilled tea all over yourself last week) half tucked and draped over a pair of leggings with tasteful ladders cut into the thighs and knees—and shouted several questions at you even though your hangover made you want to beat the hell out of your skull.

"[Name], you look awful." Ayano greeted you at the exit, wearing designer everything from head to toe and looking exceptionally glamorous for it. You could faintly smell men's cologne on her and automatically assumed she had been on a date—or was just finishing up a hookup, judging by how she'd tried to fix her makeup and failed. "Don't you have breakfast plans with that famous dietitian?"

"Who?" You squinted into the dawn sunlight and fumbled for a pair of sunglasses in your purse, slapping them on your face with a grimace. "You mean Iwaizumi Hajime? One, he's a sports dietitian, and two, I'm only doing it to track down where the hell Oikawa went so I can wring his pretty little neck."

"That sounds like an unexplored kink," Ayano teased. She snickered when you slapped her lightheartedly; she seemed much better off being able to go home earlier than you had. "I'm joking. I don't know where exactly in Argentina he went. I'm sure if anyone knows it's Iwaizumi."

You hummed in agreement. "Which is why I need you to figure out his schedule so I can jump in on his breakfast or lunch."

She sighed. "I knew there was something you weren't telling me."

"But you love me," you grinned, blowing her a kiss and hopping in the passenger seat with renewed gusto despite your pounding headache.

Ayano stepped into the driver's seat a moment later with an even more exaggerated sigh. "Unfortunately."

Thirty minutes and a few well placed bribes later, you had a printout of Iwaizumi's schedule from Monday to Sunday, with even fine details written in the margins. You flicked the paper out and pushed your sunglasses up, holding it up against the sunlight so you could read and block it at the same time.

"Breakfast at Onigiri Miya," you read slowly, eyebrows raising. "Orders the plain Onigiri and soy sauce with water to drink; later has a twenty milligram protein shake and salmon patties for a snack. Who wrote this, a superfan disguised as a pseudo secretary?"

Ayano groaned and turned the music down at your observation. "Are you going to go or not? Because we're here."

Your gaze darted forward to look around. "Where?"

She gestured to the small building she'd parked outside. "Onigiri Miya."

It was a cozy little shop, you'd give that. Ayano had allowed you to change before dropping you off, so now you wore a pair of Louboutins, a stylish pair of washed jeans, and the same button up but tucked in tight underneath a plain Chanel belt. A few of the morning customers eyed you as you walked in, but to your surprise no one was at the counter.

You spotted Iwaizumi Hajime out of the corner of your eye while you waited, completely oblivious to your presence and enjoying his Onigiri and soy sauce. The schedule had been right after all. You pursed your lips and turned your head back to face the menu, except there was now a man standing in front of you—and judging by the way he was looking at you, he recognized you, his eyes slightly wide.

"I—Uh—How can I help you?" He blustered, running a hand through his yellow hair. His nametag read 'Miya Atsumu' and underneath, scrawled in permanent marker, was an angry 'Part-Timer'. "Would you like to know the specials for today?"

"No thank you. I'll take the plain Onigiri, please, and water." You smiled and took pleasure in the way he blushed all the way to the roots of his hair. He was a handsome man, you had to say, if a little awkward.

"Sure thing!" Atsumu put in your order and you paid with your card. When he went to the back, he said,"Switch!"

You tapped your fingernails against the counter and observed the scratches in the cheap tile. When you looked up again, a bored grin on your face, you felt your stomach shrivel up and try to escape to the floor at the familiar face before you.

"Terushima Yuuji," you said sourly, grin fading to a harsh line. "What a surprise."

"[Name]?" He had the balls to look surprised to see you standing there—and really, he should be. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of you since you'd ended things with him when he cheated on you several months ago. "Wow. You look… good."

"Of course I do." You scowled and held out your hand. "My change?"

"Oh. Uh… Here. Three sixty." He dropped it into your waiting palm. "What are you doing here?"

"What? Am I not allowed to be here?" You questioned, your voice acidic. Your plan to ambush Iwaizumi was put on the back burner so you could rip Terushima a new one. Seeing his face after all this time made you want to beat him to a bloody pulp. "Whatever. Give me my Onigiri and I'll leave."

"But—"

"Goodbye." You twirled on your heel and headed for the door to sit outside where you weren't in the same room as him.

What you weren't expecting was the warmth of soup being tossed at the back of your head, or the feeling of hands clawing into your hair.

Six years of Taijutsu training kicked in and before you knew it, you had a girl sprawled out on the floor, her nose streaming vermillion rivers and her lip swelling up to concerning proportions. Your knuckles burned with the force and before you could nudge her body away, Yuuji leaped forward to check on the girl with panicked eyes.

"Babe?" He shook her, only receiving a groan in reply. "Answer me!"

Oh, this day just couldn't have gotten any worse could it? And it was all Oikawa's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback? 🥺💕


	3. 003

“AND SHE ATTACKED YOU first?” the police officer inquired, his notepad barely much of note except for scribbles of your name, age, number, and a lawyer to contact if, god forbid, the girl pressed charges against you—because it was highly likely given your celebrity status and the man had seen more than enough lawsuits against people like you go horribly wrong. “With a bowl of soup and by yanking your hair, you said?”

“Yes,” you affirmed, side eyeing Iwaizumi Hajime giving his version to another officer who had arrived with the one interviewing you. A further look around the room revealed Yuuji’s girlfriend sitting at a table, holding a napkin and an ice pack to her nose, with aforementioned boyfriend comforting and doting over her, attempting to soothe her anger over a potentially broken bone. You would be surprised if it wasn’t at least fractured. “I didn’t even do anything to her; you can ask anyone here what happened.”

The officer nodded and wrote something else down. “And what is your relationship with the victim’s boyfriend?”

Victim? Gag me, you thought, eyebrows contorting into a barely concealed sneer. If anyone was the victim, it was your hair; you’d spotted more than a few [color] strands wrapped around that girl’s knuckles when she collapsed to the tile floor. Props to Yuuji for being more loyal to her than he had you, but he really knew how to pick them, didn’t he?

“He’s my ex-boyfriend. She was the one he cheated on me with, to put a long story short.” You watched the officer’s eyebrows raise as he continued to write down the basics. The press would have a field day with this one. “There’s plenty of backstory about that in the papers if you want to read more about it.”

You deceptively left out the fact that you’d retaliated by sleeping with the captain of his volleyball team at the time, Shinsuke Kita. He’d been surprisingly easy to convince, citing that it was only logical for you to want to get back at Yuuji by sleeping with the one person he probably respected more than anyone else on their team. Everything had been no strings attached with him for a while, and when you both became too busy to hook up on weekends you’d agreed to break it off cleanly and remain friends—it wasn’t like Kita was ridiculously hard to communicate with, unlike Yuuji. You half mindedly wondered if he was in the city or not around this time of year; he was probably dealing with the rice harvest right around now.

“Is there anyone to represent you in case a lawsuit is filed against you for damages?”

“Semi Eita.” 

The cop gave you yet another look before writing down the name.

Semi was Akaashi’s lawyer and therefore your lawyer. However, you had only met him a handful of times, and even then it was on the terms of strangers. He was the best lawyer in Tokyo and everyone knew it. If Yuuji’s girl wanted to try and pull a lawsuit over on you, she would have a nasty surprise coming her way.

“Alright, we’ll call you if anything comes up.” He tucked away the notepad and bowed his head to you. Then he stepped outside to make a call, leaving you to stand alone near the window. With no other option but to sit and wait for them to let you go, you sat down and unlocked your phone.

Surprise flickered over your face when, lo and behold, Oikawa Tooru’s name popped up in your new messages. Somehow between getting your hair pulled out and soup thrown at the back of your head, he’d messaged you and you hadn’t heard the notification over it. You debated if you wanted to answer it—or at the very least read it. He hadn’t said a word to you in over a month after flaking out on you for that shoot, leaving you with Ushijima (you weren’t sure if you felt lucky or cursed after that) in the process.

Before you could let your finger press down on the screen, Iwaizumi Hajime, the reason for you being there in the first place, walked over. The cop was seemingly done with him and had gone outside to speak with his associate, the two standing close and debating over something with someone on the phone—their supervisor, perhaps?—which left everyone in the small onigiri shop to wait for them to come back.

“So, I guess you’re wondering about Shittykawa too.” You blinked at his blunt tone, surprised as he slid into the booth across from you. Your water and onigiri lay abandoned on the table, still clean but your appetite not allowing for food. “He told me about you a lot. [Name] [Surname], right?”

“Yes, and wherever he is I’m going to kick his ass,” you deadpanned.

“Get in line.” Iwaizumi scowled. “I haven’t heard a word from him in over a month and then he texts me that everything’s fine. I’m assuming you got one too?”

“A bit ago, but…” You shrugged and inclined your head in Yuuji’s direction. “I was a little busy at the time.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Well, supposedly he’s fine so he should be back in Japan in a bit. Though I wouldn’t bet on him participating in any shoots afterwards though.”

“And why not?” You asked, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. You didn’t think you could deal with Ushijima, not again—you’d beg Akaashi to do it with you, especially after those infuriatingly confusing texts he’d sent you on your flight back. He’d probably need some gentle coaxing but you could probably get him to do it. “It’s not like he can just quit, Akaashi would kill him.”

Iwaizumi shrugged, as if saying ‘I don’t know’ and left it at that.

Before you could further interrogate him, the cops entered the shop again and gestured for you, Yuuji, and his girlfriend to go over to them. You flashed a quick wave to Iwaizumi, who nodded, and approached the cop. You kept a healthy distance from Yuuji’s girlfriend, conscious of your hair and the strands you were likely lacking at her hands, and set your gaze on the cop expectantly. You half expected a lawsuit at best, arrest of both of you at worst; just because they could, not that they had any reason to take both of you to prison.

“No charges are being pressed on either side,” the cop began as a starter. You figured Yuuji had a hand in that, otherwise she would be slapping you with a lawsuit before you could blink. “Miss Fujimura, you’ll be required to attend weekly therapy sessions as a result of an unfounded outburst of anger and cleared by a licensed therapist. Miss [Name], you are free to do as you please and may sue if you wish.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t need to sue her. But thanks.”

A few more moments of the cops speaking to the girl, Fujimura-san, and you were able to leave, finally. Iwaizumi exchanged numbers with you before you left, citing that you could trash talk Oikawa behind his back whenever he got back which you found hilarious and slightly touching. But of course, as all things did, it had to come to an abrupt end.

You should have known something bad would happen with the way your day had been going. It was almost like foreshadowing; you’d managed to weasel your way out of that one, but this one?

You were lucky to get out alive.

The gun against the man’s head was astonishingly real and very much loaded, judging by the click when the hammer pulled back. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and he was sweating profusely, each droplet rolling down his face and landing on the expensive carpet. You swore if the man wouldn’t have been shot for crying, he would have been leaking giant alligator tears.

You weren’t the one holding the gun. It felt like you were.

You glanced at the back of Ushijima’s head, followed the silhouette of his arm and the hand that held the gun.

Where had it all gone wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not happy with this chapter but i rewrote it 7 times so this is the final version. i struggled so much with it so i'm hoping the next will be better.


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